


Lost In Translation

by cazzy



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 04:37:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5652736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cazzy/pseuds/cazzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Takeshi makes him lose it so completely that he doesn't even remember what language he's speaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost In Translation

**Author's Note:**

> Dug up some very old stuff I did for a KHR Kinkmeme and figured I'd throw it up here.  
> Please excuse any poorly-translated Italian.

It all happened quite quickly, and through his confused, lust-hazed mind Hayato is not entirely sure how he ended up here.  
  
His recollection of the events leading up to where he is now involve Takeshi coming home from a day of being a questionably sane Mafioso, pausing in the bedroom’s doorway to lean against the frame. He had stared fixedly at the black-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of Hayato’s nose (the result of too many words on his laptop blurring together as he scowled intently at several different emails) and the hasty, messy ponytail his silver hair had been pulled back into (“Stupid strands, stay out of my face!”).  
  
Hayato, who had been innocently typing up negotiations to an allied family of the Vongola at that time, should have seen it coming.  
  
Takeshi had loosened his tie casually, his heated gaze the only deceiving factor to his otherwise careless stance, before he’d moved with a purpose to join Hayato on the bed.  
  
Hayato believes that, sometime between when their eyes had first made contact and when Takeshi had climbed on top of him, is where his productive, working train of thought had evaporated into the sexually-charged air.  
  
It’s been ten minutes since the swordsman began touching him, and Hayato is finding himself slightly irritated that he has done nothing but taken his shirt off and explored his body. It isn’t as though that is too terrible a fate, but Hayato’s as hard as he can ever remember being, and Takeshi is choosing _right now_ to go horribly slow.  
  
“Idiot,” Hayato pants heavily as Takeshi kisses a trail across his collarbone, warm hands snaking their way around his hips to clutch desperately. “Stop fucking around and _fuck me._ ”  
  
Takeshi breathes out a chuckle, the exhalation wafting over Hayato’s skin and making him shudder. “So impatient,” he chides, ignoring Hayato’s request in favor of licking up the groove of his jugular. “You should enjoy this – it’s not like it’s painful or anything.”  
  
One of the hands on his hips slides around and further down, gently squeezing a handful of his arse, and it sends jolts of electricity straight into the pit of Hayato’s stomach. His breathing hitches, because, _oh,_ it does feel quite nice.  
  
It would be a sin to say Takeshi doesn’t know what he’s doing. Every movement of his skilled hands sends sparks of pleasure down Hayato’s spine, and high, keening noises are slipping out of his throat without abandon.

The foreplay appears to take its toll on Hayato’s state of mind, because after what seems like hours of the blissful torture, words are tumbling out of his mouth that are certainly not the native tongue of the country he is currently located in.  
  
He catches himself in the middle of it – _“Prego, prego, non si fermano”_ – and stutters, clamping his mouth shut as he feels himself flush in embarrassment. It is a silent compliment to Takeshi that he is skilled enough to make Hayato forget how to speak in languages other than his own, but the idiot doesn’t have to _know_ that.  
  
Takeshi frowns as he quite literally bites his tongue, halting in his ministrations, and the loss of feeling decidedly does _not_ make Hayato whine unhappily. “Don’t stop,” the swordsman encourages, and it takes a moment for it to register that he’s talking about the Italian word-vomit expelling from Hayato’s mouth.  
  
“I should be horrified that you find Italian arousing,” he accuses halfheartedly before leaning forward to whisper into Takeshi’s ear, _“Proseguire.”_  
  
The raven-haired man groans, his eyes slipping closed for a moment. When he opens them again, he juts his hips forward to collide with Hayato’s own, and the silver-haired Italian can feel the pressing hardness of his companion’s manhood. “It _is_ a language of beauty and romance,” Takeshi murmurs in between sharp intakes of breath, justifying himself as he ruts against Hayato’s answering stiffness.  
  
Speaking in Italian willingly to the swordsman seems too strained for Hayato, so he slips back into the comfort of Japanese. “Don’t stop,” he pants as Takeshi slips a hand under his waistband to run a rough palm down the length of his cock. Hayato tenses automatically for a moment, a jerk-reaction to someone’s touch on such a sensitive part of his anatomy, just before a pleasant fit of shivers work their way down his spine. The heat and pressure from Takeshi’s hand on his member forces a quiet, _“Dio,”_ out of his throat.

The minutes meld together as Takeshi fists his length, and before long Hayato can feel that familiar coil of heat in his stomach. He forces out a _“Takeshi, sono vicino,”_ just before he arches his hips into the swordsman’s hand – which removes itself just before he comes. Hayato glares at his lover when he realises what has just transpired, about to hiss venomous, biting insults, when Takeshi smiles sensually and breathes, “Not until I’m inside of you.”  
  
All is forgiven as Hayato inclines his head in an apologetic nod, and Takeshi takes the moment to bring their lips together in a passionate kiss. Tongues fight for dominance (they're both dominant people at heart, and this is no different) as they explore each other, tasting what can only be described as one another's essence. When the swordsman pulls away, it is only for a moment before two fingers press against the Italian's now-swollen lips.  
  
He understands perfectly without words, taking each of the digits into his mouth and licking at them thoroughly. The look Takeshi gives him is one borne of adoration and lust, and he tries to ignore both the stare and the hot flush high on his cheeks.  
  
Takeshi makes and holds eye contact as he slips one slicked finger inside of Hayato, who is struck by the intensity of his obsidian gaze. _“Sei bellisimo,”_ he breathes dazedly, his breath catching when a second finger joins the first.  
  
A low moan comes from deep in Takeshi’s throat, and as he thrusts his digits in and out of Hayato, he asks, “How do you say, _mine?_ ”  
  
_“I-il mio,”_ he responds, stumbling over words that _should,_ by all means, come more naturally than Japanese. _“Il mio.”_  
  
Hayato’s words are forgotten as Takeshi pulls his fingers out, replacing them with something much bigger. He pushes his way into Hayato’s tight heat, and the sharp pain dulls away as Hayato’s body adjusts to accommodate the swordsman’s girth.  
  
Takeshi begins to move his hips, and almost instantly their thrusts match in time. Experience plays a role into this, and with precision Takeshi’s cock presses against that spot that turns Hayato into a mess, sobbing out, _“Di più,”_ as the heat in his abdomen builds up and prepares to burst.  
  
His orgasm is so intense that all he sees is white for a moment, and as he descends from his high he can distantly hear Takeshi murmuring something repeatedly, like a mantra.  
  
Post-coital Hayato has always been drowsy and lethargic, and this time is no different. He cuffs Takeshi in the shoulder weakly, muttering a, “Go to bed now, idiot,” as he takes his own advice and settles down into the bed.  
  
As he drifts off, satiated, Takeshi’s soft _“Il mio”s_ lull him to sleep.


End file.
